Listen.
The birds have gone to bed,
the last faint cheeps drop
from hidden roosts,
a bulldrog croaks, just once,
his big voice a drum
against descending dark.
Tree frogs are quiet, no chorus
from the branches tonight,
too cold for their tender throats.
The fire crackles, old dog
groans, shifts her aching bones,
the cat hunkers, watching sparks,
smoke curls upward to stars
that make no sound,
indifferent
to this tiny fire,
this speck of green lawn,
this tiny blue sphere
we all--
the birds, the bullfrog
the tree frogs, the dog,
the cat, me and you--
call home.
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